Chapter 4: Sweet Dreams, Fake Wife

Morning light cut through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Julian Cross’s penthouse like a cold warning.

I woke up tangled in black silk sheets that smelled like him—warm amber, agarwood, and a dangerous kind of masculinity that stuck to the skin.

My body still carried the leftover ache from the night before, every muscle remembering how easily he had pinned me down.

“You’re going to be under me a lot from now on.”

The words kept echoing inside my head, replaying over and over like a dark promise I couldn’t escape.

I sat up fast, pulling the oversized silk shirt down over my thighs. Julian was already awake. He stood by the window in nothing but black boxer briefs, his broad back and strong legs fully on display. The Ghost of Wall Street looked untouchable, like he didn’t belong in the same world as anyone else.

He turned. His sharp blue eyes moved over me in the bed. For a second, hunger flashed there, then it was gone, locked back behind his usual control.

“Get up,” he said. “We’re going shopping today. You need a wardrobe and a ring fit for Mrs. Julian Cross.”

The words Mrs. Julian Cross made my stomach twist. Forced. Heavy and real in a way I didn’t want to accept.

I nodded anyway.

An hour later, we were in the back of his Maybach, sliding through Manhattan like the city belonged to him. His hand stayed high on my thigh the entire ride, warm, firm, claiming space he hadn’t earned. Every time I tried to shift away, his grip tightened like a quiet warning.

Our first stop was Bergdorf Goodman. The staff treated us like royalty and led us into a private suite. Julian dropped into a leather chair like he owned the room and probably everything inside it.

“Start with evening gowns,” he ordered.

Dress after dress pushed me further out of my comfort zone. Emerald, backless, and bold. A red one that felt like sin stitched into fabric.

A silver-white gown with a neckline that dipped too deep, like it was daring someone to look too long.

“That one makes your tits look incredible,” he said casually. “But I don’t want other men imagining their hands where mine will be.”

My eyes snapped to him.

“You’re disgusting,” I said.

He walked closer, his fingers brushing along my bare back like he had every right to.

“You’re mine for a year, Clara. Eventually, you’ll be begging for it.”

The air between us tightened until it felt hard to breathe.

When we moved to lingerie, it got worse. The white lace I stepped out in made his control visibly crack for a moment.

“Fuck,” he muttered, circling me like I was something he couldn’t decide whether to touch or destroy. “I could take you right here.”

A small sound slipped out of me before I could stop it.

“But I won’t,” he said sharply, stepping back. “Not yet.”

From there, he directed the driver to Harry Winston. The moment we stepped inside, the space felt quieter, heavier, like even sound knew to behave there.

The manager hurried forward. “Mr. Cross, everything is ready.”

Julian didn’t even look at the displays. “Show me your most expensive ring.”

A diamond was placed in front of him, massive, blinding, the kind of thing that felt more like a fortress than jewelry.

He studied it with bored indifference.

But my eyes drifted to another ring. Smaller. Softer. A single diamond surrounded by tiny stones. Elegant and understated, yet beautiful enough to draw the eye. It caught the light with every movement, sparkling as if it had a life of its own.

Julian noticed.

For a brief second, something unreadable crossed his face.

“We’ll take that one,” he said, pointing to the ring I had been looking at.

I froze.

That wasn’t what he had asked for.

The manager looked confused but quickly moved to obey.

Moments later, Julian slid the ring onto my finger himself. It fit perfectly. The diamond shimmered under the lights, and for a split second, it felt less like a contract and more like something else. Something dangerously close to real.

A strange feeling fluttered in my chest, and I hated it.

The truth was, I had wanted this ring from the moment I laid eyes on it.

Just not like this. Not from a fake marriage. And definitely not from him.

I lifted my chin, forcing my face into calm. “It’ll do,” I said flatly.

A faint smirk curved Julian’s lips, like he already knew the truth I was trying to hide.

“Good girl.”

By evening, the car was packed with designer bags, jewelry, expensive hats, and shoes.

Back at the penthouse, he cornered me in the master closet, backing me against the island.

He didn’t touch me, but his presence trapped me anyway.

“Try on the white lace set again tonight,” he murmured, his lips close enough that I could feel every word.

“Wear it to bed. I want to see exactly what I own while I still have enough control not to take it.”

The near kiss left me breathless and furious at the same time.

“Sweet dreams, fake wife.”

He walked away like nothing had happened, leaving the words hanging in the air like a threat disguised as affection.

I sank onto the bed, my heart still racing, my fingers brushing my lips without thinking.

One year of this.

One year of living inside this tension.

How was I supposed to survive it without losing my mind—or worse, losing myself?

My phone suddenly vibrated on the nightstand.

The hospital number flashed. My hands shook as I answered.

“Miss Sterling?” the doctor said, his tone heavy. “Your father’s condition has taken a sudden turn. He’s stable for now, but we found irregularities in his medical records. Signs of slow poisoning over time. This stroke may not have been entirely natural. You need to come in immediately.”

The line went dead.

I stared at the phone, the room suddenly too quiet.

My blood turned cold.

Julian had known who I was from the moment I applied under a fake name. He had let me stay anyway. He had been playing a longer game the entire time.

And now one thought would not leave my mind.

What if he had been behind the poisoning too?